


Where's Control Z When You Need It

by xxx_cat_xxx



Series: Whumping Tony Stark [38]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Concussions, Gen, Irondad, May Is The Best, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker Feels, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, and so does tony, and steve is just one super-soldier sized elephant in the room, but he’s sorry and he learns from it, peter screws up, so many feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28589949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxx_cat_xxx/pseuds/xxx_cat_xxx
Summary: While helping out his injured mentor, Peter lets his curiosity get the best of him and ends up learning some information about Tony's personal life he wasn't meant to know. If only trust were as easy to build as it is to break. But Tony knows some people are worth a second chance.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Whumping Tony Stark [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1072683
Comments: 20
Kudos: 127
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2020





	Where's Control Z When You Need It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sally0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sally0/gifts).



> This is my Marvel Trumps Hate 2020 fic for Sally. Thank you for this thoughtful prompt and your donation. You and your fics are a delight! And thank you to [Whumphoarder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder) for beta reading and coming up with a title. 
> 
> This fic takes some liberties with the timeline of CW and HC, but is otherwise largely canon-compliant. Enjoy!

“So. Will you finally tell me what’s going on?” Peter addresses the half-conscious engineer currently splayed out on the ground in front of him. Tony blinks his eyes, groans, and mumbles something unintelligible.

“Huh?” Peter hopes Tony knows that the exasperation in his voice is really just worry, accumulated from a whole afternoon of watching Tony try to hide the fact that he is _clearly not well_ , culminating in him dropping to the floor so suddenly Peter didn’t even have a chance to catch him.

“Was gonna sit down,” Tony mutters defiantly. “Missed the chair.”

“Wow.” Peter runs a hand through his hair. “Like, really, wow. Did you hurt yourself just now?”

Tony shakes his head and then winces, bringing a hand to his temple.

Peter frowns. “You didn’t hit your head when you fell. Is it a migraine?”

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” Tony asks, resignation already clear in his voice.

Peter crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Not a chance.”

Tony sighs. “’S not a migraine, kid. Just a concussion.”

Peter blinks. “Now where did you get a concussion from?”

“Remember the Skrulls that tried to steal the Statue of Liberty yesterday?” Tony sighs, moving his hand to rub over his face. “Bit hard to stave off thirty of them without any backup.”

And that, Peter knows, is as close as Tony Stark will ever come to admitting that he misses the Avengers.

Quietly, he says, “ _I_ could have been backup.”

“You, young man,” Tony replies, pushing himself up to sitting and straightening his shoulders, the moment of vulnerability gone with the blink of an eye, “had a history test. Will you help me up now?”

“Oh.” Peter extends his hand. “Sorry.”

Tony visibly pales when he goes to stand, his mouth turning into a thin line and his Adam’s apple working when he swallows thickly. Still steadying him, Peter reaches for the swivel chair and sits his mentor down on it, wondering whether he should make a dash for the trashcan as well. 

But Tony just presses his knuckles to his lips for a moment before swallowing again and then turns around to the table where parts of Peter’s suit and War Machine’s leg braces are spread out widely. “Okay, where were we?”

“No offense, Mr. Stark, but shouldn't you lie down?” Peter asks sceptically.

“Probably.” Tony clears his throat. “But I got a thing with Rhodey this evening. If I sleep now, there’s no way I’m getting out of bed later. Better to keep the adrenaline pumping.”

“That’s… not how it works.” Peter can only shake his head. The more time he spends with Tony, the more he thinks it’s a miracle the man is still (mostly) in one piece. 

But he also knows him well enough by now to understand that his stubbornness easily fills out the part of his brain where self-preservation skills are supposed to be located. So when Tony ignores his comment and picks up a welder, Peter doesn’t protest. He simply turns the music down until it’s barely audible and dims the lights a little before getting back to the wires he’d been incorporating into his mask.

They work in relative silence for a while until Tony suddenly lets out a curse, followed by a loud puff and a darting flame from the motherboard in front of him.

“Goddammit!” Coughing, he quickly extinguishes the flame with his sleeve. When he looks up, his eyes are leaking tears and smoke is curling up from where his trademark goatee got singed.

“Mr. Stark–”

“Fine, fine, I see what you’re doing,” Tony grumbles before Peter can even finish his sentence. “I’m going to bed already. You won. Are you happy now?” he says mostly to the tech in front of him. 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Peter sighs. 

Tony gets up and almost staggers into the wall. Peter grabs hold of Tony’s arm, glad when the older man doesn’t resist.

“Good decision,” he says when he guides him to the elevator and up to his bedroom.

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,“ Tony grumbles, but it lacks spite. “Don’t set anything on fire while I’m out.”

(Peter eyes the ash on his face and swallows a sarcastic response.)

“And text May if you decide to stay over. Angry Aunt Hottie reporting me for kidnapping is the last thing I need today.”

Tony disappears into the bathroom to fix his facial hair while Peter goes to fetch him water and two Vicodin instead of the three Tony asked for (“Why should I keep my brain clear if you won’t let me work anyway?”).

When he returns, Tony is sitting up against the headboard with his eyes closed, dressed in sweats and a Henley. He’s looking pale and miserable and very much unlike the SI owner printed on the cover of The Economist just last week, and Peter suddenly feels much more sorry for him than before. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “I got the meds.” Tony’s eyes fly open and he makes a grabby motion for the painkillers. He knocks back the pills, downs the water, and then seems to get positively sucked into the covers. 

“Do you need anything else?” Peter asks once his mentor’s eyes are mostly closed and he is satisfied Tony will stay horizontal.

“All good,” Tony mumbles. “Or wait, shit…” He reaches into the pocket of his sweats and pulls out his phone. “Can you text Rhodey I’m not gonna make it tonight?”

“Uh, okay?” Peter accepts the phone, minimally bewildered.

“I might puke if I look at the screen,” Tony adds matter-of-factly. “Pin’s the Fibonacci sequence, first six numbers.”

“Oh. Yikes.” Peter nods. “Sure thing. FRIDAY, can you switch off the lights? Sleep well, Mr. Stark.”

“Thanks, kid,” he thinks he hears Tony mumble from under the blanket.

*

Back in the workshop, Peter grabs a blanket from the cabinet before settling on the fancy black leather couch in the corner. He opens Tony’s phone and finds Rhodey’s photo in the most recent messages―his contact is saved as “Honeybear”.

Peter drafts three separate messages that he all deletes again before settling on the simplest one. _Hi, this is Peter. Hope you’re good! Tony is in bed with a concussion. He’s doing okay, but told me to text you he can’t make it to your meeting tonight._

The reply pops up barely fifteen seconds later. _Thx. Tell him to stay out of the workshop. Will see him tmrw eve after pt. take care kid._

Smiling, Peter replies with a thumbs up.

And he knows he should have closed the phone that very moment. He should have gone to the lab, finished the parts of the suit that he can tackle alone and then started on his homework.

He knows that.

Instead, he exits the chat with Rhodey and scrolls further down the list of messages. He finds his own number saved under ‘Spiderkid’ (could have been worse) and Happy’s under ‘Wannabe Ali’ (which makes him chuckle). Then he stops at a contact simply saved as ‘P’.

He knows he shouldn’t do it. He really, really knows he shouldn’t.

Peter opens the chat.

The messages are all Tony’s, unread from the looks of it, sent with gaps of varying numbers of days in between. The latest one is a voice message from the previous night.

Peter still could have stopped, switched off the phone, forgotten how close he was to stepping over the invisible line that separates Tony Stark, superhero, billionaire, and his mentor, from Tony Stark, partner of Pepper Potts, who has a love life and arguments and ordinary people’s relationship issues. 

But Peter doesn’t stop. Instead, he looks up to check that the door is closed and nobody can enter without him hearing it, and presses play.

“Yeah, Pep. So, uhm. That was the third time you sent my call to voicemail, which, eh, means I get it you don’t wanna talk.”

Tony sounds rough, words slurred and voice hoarse, and, to Peter's absolute horror, he sounds like he's _crying_. And Peter, for all it’s worth, simply can’t get his fingers to move and pause the message.

“And, uh, not that you don’t have the right to ignore me. We both know that this fuckup was on me, and I’ve apologised a million times, which, you know, you would be aware of if you’d read anything from me that isn’t sanctioned by your secretary first. But hey. I’ll say it again. I’m sorry. And I’m also fucking sorry for calling again and again because I know I’m probably just making things worse. Rhodey’s gonna give me hell if he finds out I’m drunk dialing you. So. It’s just that… you know, Pep, how you always used to say that we don’t need such a large compound for the team? Well, turns out you’re right, because it’s just a huge fucking empty space. I bought a Gibson collector’s edition yesterday just to fill one of the rooms.”

There’s ten seconds of silence, only broken by Tony’s harsh, hitching breaths.

“So, I guess what I was calling to say was that, you know, the first days after we went on this break? I thought it would just get easier the more I got used to it. Turns out I was wrong again, because. It just. Didn’t.”

Peter’s heart clenches at the way he hears Tony’s voice crack at the words.

“Anyway. I guess I’ll just stop this before I further embarrass myself. I don’t think you’re ever gonna listen to this, but if you do, please know that I got hit in the head this morning by a Skrull, because apparently that’s my life now. So, just to say, I can’t be held accountable for anything I said. Just… take care. I’m sorry, Pep. You deserved so much better.”

And Peter sits frozen, dizzy, blood rushing in his ears like a waterfall.

But things are falling into place now. Not just Tony's concussion that he now realises might at least be 30% hangover, but also the glaring absence of Pepper Potts in the tower whenever Peter comes around for his visits. He'd always assumed that she's busy with work, that she and Tony meet at night or during the weekends Peter is at home, but he sees it now—the giant hole that Pepper left in Tony's life. He sees it in the deep sadness in Tony’s tired eyes when he thinks Peter is looking at the holographic screen instead of observing him, and he wonders how he didn’t realise it earlier. 

He knows he should feel bad for Tony, and guilty, but for the first few moments all he can feel is anger. Because he’s known Tony for long enough now to not be in awe anymore with every single thing he does, to start seeing the cracks in his masks and the errors in his behaviour, and to realise more and more that he likes him not despite, but because of his humanness. And although it hurts to hear his mentor like this, drunk and sad and begging, it doesn’t make Peter think any less of him.

He’d thought that Tony started to let at least some of his facade down in front of Peter, but turns out he was wrong again. Why didn’t he _tell_ him? Why did he leave Peter intentionally under the impression that he and Pepper were still together? It’s so frustrating that Peter almost wants to cry.

He doesn’t. Instead, all of a sudden, he zooms out of it, and that’s when it hits him. He’s listened to Tony’s personal message. And not just any personal message, but about as personal as they come. He’s broken his mentor’s trust in the worst possible way.

“Oh god,” he mumbles. “Oh god, what did I _do_?” 

Peter sets the phone down with shaky fingers. His heart’s doing overtime and he feels clammy with cold sweat running down his neck. _Tony can’t know_. 

“FRIDAY?” he croaks.

“Yes, Mr. Parker?” the AI replies instantly.

“You…” Peter feels a wave of self-hatred rise in his chest as he forces out the words. “You won’t tell him I heard that, right?”

Maybe he’s imagining it, but the AI’s voice seems colder when she replies. “I am not programmed to inform Mr. Stark about the activities of other inhabitants of the compound unless he specifically asks about them.”

“Okay,” Peter whispers. “Thanks.”

*

He spends the next few hours trying and failing to work. He barely manages to get down half a sandwich for dinner, feeling far too nauseous to eat. His head is a rollercoaster of _why didn’t he tell me_ and _oh god, why did I do that_ and _what if he finds out_ and it’s all Peter can do not to curl up in a corner and cry, or maybe scream.

“Mr. Stark is awake and inquiring whether you are still at the compound,” FRIDAY’s voice startles him when he was just deliberating whether to pack his leftover math homework up and go home.

But now it’s too late. Peter walks upstairs and takes a deep breath before knocking lightly and then opening Tony’s door. Tony is sitting up in his bed, his hair sticking up in all directions. He still looks tired and in pain, but he's a little less pale than before, and his eyes seem more focused.

“How are you feeling?” Peter asks.

“Well, there’s only one of you now, so that’s an improvement.”

Peter only manages a half-smile. Tony immediately sits up a bit straighter and frowns at him.

“What's up kiddo?“ he asks. “You look like Happy just spent three hours explaining the last episode of Downton Abbey to you.”

And here’s one more thing Peter knows about Tony Stark: although he likes to act like he doesn't notice anything, he actually notices _everything_.

“Nothing,” he replies, forcing his voice not to shake.

And here’s one thing Peter knows about himself: he's a horrible liar.

“Hmm.” Tony’s frown deepens, but he seems to decide to leave it at that.

“You, uhm, you called me?” Peter asks.

“Yeah. Since you’re still here, could you get me some crackers and maybe a sandwich or something? I really feel like Alfredo’s pizza, but I honestly don’t think I’ll stay awake long enough for the delivery. Oh, and can I have my phone back?”

“Sure.” Peter nods. Not looking at Tony, he pulls the phone out of his pocket and puts it onto the bedside table. “Be right back.”

He thinks of Tony at the compound at night, trying in vain to fill the empty rooms with life. Of Pepper Potts, somewhere at the other end of New York, or the planet, having her own reasons for not reading Tony’s messages. Of Uncle Ben, talking about responsibility. 

And somewhere along the way back from the ridiculously oversized kitchen to the bedroom, feeling so scared and guilty he thinks he might throw up, Peter makes a decision.

He returns to the room and gives Tony the sandwich, then watches him work his way through it and most of a glass of apple juice while leaning back against his pillow and listening to the evening news with half-lidded eyes. When he’s done, Peter sets the tray aside and clears his throat, trying to find the courage and words he needs. He picks up the glass of juice he’d brought for himself, clasping his hands around it tight enough that it nearly cracks.

“Come on, kid, spit it out,” Tony prompts before Peter can open his mouth.

“What?”

The older man sighs. “I’m concussed, not stupid, Peter. What’s eating you?”

“Okay.” Peter swallows hard. “So. Uhm. I, I made a mistake.”

“Fine, hit me,” Tony says in his ready-to-work voice. “Anyone dead? Anyone pregnant? Some stripshow videos on the net I should know about?” When Peter shakes his head, he adds, “Well, then I’m sure we can fix it.”

“I listened to the voice text you sent Ms. Potts,” Peter whispers, not looking up from his hands. “After texting Colonel Rhodey. While, uh, while you were sleeping.” He feels his voice crack. “It was completely out of line for me, it was so stupid, and I am really, really sorry.”

He finally looks up and braces himself, fully expecting Tony to shout at him. 

But he doesn't. He just looks at him with these dark, world-weary eyes, and what Peter sees in them for a moment, before the mask closes, isn't anger, just resignation. As if Tony didn't expect any better—of Peter, of anyone—as if he's so used to people breaking his trust that it comes as no surprise anymore. And somehow, that makes it all so much worse.

“I'm...” Peter’s throat goes tight and the word gets stuck somewhere on the way out.

“You're going home now,” Tony says, quietly, but without any room for bargaining. “And you're not coming back unless I call you.”

Peter swallows past the growing lump in his throat, the heaviness in his chest. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles.

He puts the glass down on the nightstand and turns to leave.

*

May has long since left for her nightshift when he makes it back to the apartment, and Peter’s glad for it. He throws his backpack into the corner under his desk and then lies face down on his bed, not even bothering to kick off his jeans even though his belt is digging uncomfortably into his hips.

The turmoil of emotions in his chest is gone and replaced by something that almost could be numbness, almost indifference, except that he knows it’s not. It’s some kind of temporary barricade his mind throws up when it cannot deal with all the emotions that come with the fallout of his actions. But it doesn’t get rid of the feelings, just staves them off for a while, and Peter is already bracing for impact.

 _Don’t come back unless I call you_ , Tony said. And Peter knows Tony well enough to understand that he doesn’t intend to make this call any time soon. Or maybe ever.

*

Peter doesn’t sleep a wink that night. The sun is coming up behind the dusty kitchen window opposite of his room when the barricade in his head finally starts showing some cracks. He cries into his pillow then, quietly, for five or six minutes, thinking of Ben and Tony and wondering why he is never good enough to keep any of the good things in his life.

He stops because he hears May’s steps on the staircase five floors below, and by the time her key is turning in the keyhole, he has wiped his face dry, started the coffee maker for her, and fixed himself a bowl of cereal.

“Good morning,” he says with as much cheerfulness as he can muster when she steps into the entryway and tiredly drops her handbag onto the stool under the coat rack.

She looks over at him and her eyes narrow, a familiar crease appearing in between her eyebrows.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he replies. “Got an early class today.”

“Peter,” she says, forcibly calm, “it’s Saturday. And why are you wearing the same shirt as yesterday?”

Peter feels his own face crumble. For a split second, he considers lying to her, but honestly, he’s had just enough of that by now. He swallows, then looks up at her. “May, I really messed up things with Tony.”

And here’s a thing Peter knows about May: it may be seven am after an eight-hour shift and a previous fourteen-hour day, she may be tired and hungry and only have five hours left before she has to leave again for her volunteer work at the food bank, and Peter may have forgotten to heat the milk before pouring it generously into her coffee, thus making it lukewarm, but none of that will stop her from sitting down with him at the cramped kitchen table and listening to the story of how her nephew royally fucked up.

“Okay,” she says afterwards, releasing her barrette and letting her long hair fall loosely over her shoulders, “so how do you plan on fixing that?”

And this is how, three hours later, Peter is letting himself back into the compound, momentarily surprised that his key card still works, while balancing a box of Alfredo’s pizza in one hand and a container of blueberry cheesecake in the other.

*

Tony is in his workshop, his back to the door, bent over Rhodey’s leg braces.

“What do you want?” he says hoarsely when Peter pauses in the doorway.

“I…” Peter starts, all at once second-guessing his decision to come.

Tony drops down the tools on the table and turns around. He doesn't look better than yesterday―looks worse, actually. Peter can tell from the bags under his eyes that he didn’t get any sleep that night either, and his breathing is elevated in the way it is when he’s either anxious or in pain, or both. But as much as he wants to, Peter knows it's not his place anymore to tell him to lie down.

“I-I wanted to apologise,” Peter says quietly, forcing himself to look Tony straight in the eyes. “I also brought some real food.”

Tony makes a noise close to a sarcastic snort. He seems to deliberate for a bit, until he sighs deeply and gestures at the chair on the opposite side of the table. “Sit down,” he orders, already turning back to the workbench. “I gotta finish this first.”

“You're not going to tell me to leave?” Peter blurts out, surprised. “Or punish me?”

This makes Tony huff out a breath and turn back around. “What exactly do you think of me?”

“Well, you _did_ ask me to return the suit last time,” Peter replies, then bites his tongue. _Great, Parker_ , he thinks. _You came here to apologise, and now you’re antagonising the very person you’re supposed to be saying sorry to_.

But Tony surprises him again. “Well, looks like we both learned from that time,” he says with a shrug.

Peter opens his mouth, blinks at that, closes it again, and then sets down the pizza and cheesecake on the far end of the table before taking a seat. He watches Tony work for another few minutes until he repeats, “I really am sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Tony closes his eyes for a brief moment. “I know you are, kid,” he says, and there’s an edge in his tone that makes Peter wonder how many times exactly Tony’s heard the same thing from people who broke his trust.

“I, I promise I won’t ever do it again. You can, uhm, change your pincode, and ask FRIDAY to delete my security clearances. I just, please, don’t ask me to stay away. I, I don’t want to not work with you. It’s been…” He runs out of words and helplessly looks up at the older man.

Who, finally, lets some kindness bleed into the exhaustion on his face. “Not planning to do any of that, kid,” he says. “I believe you when you say you regret it and you won’t do it again. Hell, if you know anything about my history, you know I’d be the world’s biggest hypocrite for not giving second chances.”

 _Or third, or fourth_ , Peter thinks, remembering the day when he split a ferry in two, but he doesn’t say it. Everything feels a little unreal, be it from the sudden twist of events or the glaring lack of sleep messing with his head. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

Tony inhales deeply, then half-rolls his eyes. “You’re welcome, kid. Now, for the love of god, stop looking like a sad puppy in the rain, okay?”

Peter tries for a shaky smile. “Do you want some pizza before it gets cold?” he asks hesitantly.

“You really aren’t gonna let me work, are you?” Tony retorts without any heat. “Fine, let’s eat pizza. Unless you got artichoke again—then I’m gonna throw it right out the window.”—Peter chuckles—“And after that, you’ll go home and sleep. I’m not kicking you out, but you look like you’re gonna fall over any moment, and I need some more time to stew.”

Peter cringes a bit at the honesty of it. “Okay,” he nods.

Tony’s eyes soften. “But you can come back tomorrow afternoon if you like and we’ll finish the suit, alright?”

“That would be nice,” Peter says quietly. “And, uhm, Mr. Stark? Please try and get some sleep too.”

Tony raises a finger. “Boundaries, kid,” he warns. “We’re not there yet.”

But something in his voice tells Peter that some day, they will be.  


**Author's Note:**

> Your comments always make me happy. Feel free to leave one if you're in the mood! You can also find me on [tumblr](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com/).


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